


tucked in

by moonjuicewiththepresident



Series: tma [7]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders-centric, Horror, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Insomnia, Minor Character Death, Psychological Horror, but as a corpse, fear of the dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonjuicewiththepresident/pseuds/moonjuicewiththepresident
Summary: He’d heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in Virgil’s experience, it just teaches you to hide from it.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: tma [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707199
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	tucked in

Virgil’s parents never let him have a night light. He was always afraid, but they were just that sort of stubborn which doubled down when he screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening. So no matter how terrified Virgil might have been, he would always end up sleeping in the dark.

He didn’t know why it was such a cornerstone of their vision to see him grow up strong, but even an adult they would tell Virgil how they “helped him get over my fear of the dark”. It was such a point of pride for them that he could never bring himself to tell them, to say that the fear never really went away. He’d heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in Virgil’s experience, it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but sometimes it’s literally a blanket.

It wasn’t a specific blanket, either. He didn’t have it from childhood, or carry it for security; it was just whatever was on his bed. Thin summer sheet or thick duvet, it didn’t matter, as long as he could duck my head underneath it and curl into a ball, Virgil was fine. Weirdly, the fact it was still pitch black when he was underneath those covers didn’t bother him one bit. The darkness beneath the blankets was his darkness: it was warm and cozy. Virgil trusted it. But that cold, hateful gloom waiting just beyond the thin wall of his sanctuary never really left his mind.

Eventually, Virgil grew up, like pretty much everyone, and as the years passed he forgot his childhood fear. The blanket was just there to keep him warm. Until one week.

The mother of an old friend of his, Patton Robin, called him out of the blue. Now, at that point, Virgil hadn’t really seen Patton in about three years, but she sounded close to panic so he listened. She told him she hadn’t heard from Patton in almost a month and was convinced something terrible had happened to her son. Apparently he lived alone, and Virgil was the closest friend to Patton’s address. She begged him to go over and see if anything was wrong.

Virgil felt a bit guilty about how long he put off going, although, in the end, it didn’t matter. Patton and he hadn’t parted on bad terms or anything, he was just a bit too positive and aggressive with his affection, and Virgil had no real wish to bring him back into his life. Still, Virgil couldn’t not check on him, not after that phone call. So, eventually, he drove the half-hour over to his cheerful suburban bungalow.

It was almost evening by the time he got out, and as Virgil walked up to the front door he noticed that none of the windows were lit. He was reassured, though, when he saw a shape watching him from the kitchen. Virgil couldn’t really make it out, and it disappeared almost as soon as he’d seen it, but he managed to convince himself that it was Patton, probably wondering why he’d shown up at his door unannounced. Virgil kept telling himself there was no reason to feel so uneasy. When he reached the front door, he saw it was open, and shadows spilled out of it like paint.

It wasn’t open so wide that you could have seen it from the street, but it was immediately clear that something was very wrong with Patton Robin, and Virgil already regretted getting involved. He expected the door to creak when he pulled it, but the hinges moved in complete silence. Inside, everything was gloomy, lit only by a few stray beams of sunset that had managed to slip in past the heavy curtains. There was no sign of any figure watching from the window, but something in the light made the shadows seem as if they were moving. Forwards and backward, shifting to a beat that only they could hear. He fumbled for a moment or two, looking for a light switch until he was able to flick the ceiling lights on and the shadows retreated back to where they should have been.

Inside, the place was an absolute mess. Patton had never been a tidy guy, but it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. A thin film of dust coated everything, and there was this rancid smell pervading the place that he thought must have been coming from the fridge. On the wall hung a calendar, still pinned to January. From the looks of things, he hadn’t been living there in over a month. Virgil was about to head out, and find a phone somewhere to call Patton’s mother, and then maybe the police when he caught another glimpse of movement. He saw through a crack in one of the doors that lead further into the house. This time it was a slow, languid motion, and he was absolutely sure that he’d seen it.

Virgil called out for Patton, or for anyone who might be in there to respond, but he got nothing but that same thick silence. His heart was thumping so hard he could feel his legs shake as he approached the door. Virgil pushed it open and reached for a light switch on the wall. He found it, turned it on and… nothing happened. The room remained completely black, and for the first time in almost twenty years, he began to feel that childish fear of the dark.

Thankfully, he had always kept a heavy flashlight in his car, in case he would break down somewhere at night, so he went to get it. The weight in Virgil’s hand was reassuring and solid, as he walked slowly back and into the darkened room. In the light, he could see this was Patton’s bedroom. There was a small writing desk covered with papers, a large oak closet, a single bed missing its covers, and a door to a small en suite bathroom in the corner. As Virgil went in, he noticed the dust in here wasn’t as thick as in the rest of the house, and that the last entry marked on his desktop calendar was the 12th of February. Empty food packets and bottles were strewn about the room and piled up in the corner. It looked like though Patton hadn’t left his bedroom in weeks. The rancid odor that he’d caught wind of outside was stronger in here, and he no longer thought it was coming from the fridge.

Slowly and carefully, Virgil made his way towards the wardrobe. It was a stark, imposing thing: a good two feet taller than he was. The smell was making his eyes water but he pushed through. Even if Virgil knew what he was going to find inside, he felt like he had to open it, if only so he could accurately describe it to the police. So that’s what he did. Virgil gripped the ice-cold brass handle, took as deep a breath as he could endure, and opened the door to the closet.

The shape that slid out did not, at first, resemble anything he would have called human. It looked like a large, wet bag, glistening and slick, with a dark liquid that oozed from it onto the floor. He couldn’t even try to describe the smell. It was only when he saw a shriveled, nearly skeletal hand gripping the edge of the bag from the inside that he realized what he was actually looking at.

It was Patton, but when he had climbed into that cupboard he had taken the sheets from his bed. He had wrapped them tightly around himself as he sat in there, clutching them in what Virgil could only assume was mortal terror. And now, in death, they had fused to him, his own putrefying fluids mixing with whatever gross liquid had soaked into that thick fabric. How long had he sat there waiting? Hours? Days? Had it been since the 12th, two weeks before Virgil had come to check on him?

And as he stood there, in utter horror, the growing pool of dark liquid touched the tip of his shoe. That’s it. That’s the moment that Virgil believed it started for him. He didn’t know why particularly that moment fixates him, that there must have been dozens of other ways he called attention to himself. But even so, whenever he would back, he could not shake the conviction that it was that moment he sealed his fate. Because he didn’t watch where he put his feet.

Virgil called the police at that point. They were very understanding, although once a search turned up nothing they didn’t pay any attention to his insistence someone else had been in the house. For all the strangeness of it, there didn’t seem to be any actual evidence of foul play, so he was really just offered some condolences and sent on his way. They were the ones that called Patton’s mother in the end and to be honest he was glad. Virgil didn’t really think he could have handled that conversation.

And then it was over. Nothing for him to do but go home, and try to process what he was feeling, what Virgil had seen in that dusty bungalow. And he thought he was doing okay. At least while the daylight held. But that night it came for him.

He woke up at 2:40 in the morning. Virgil didn’t know why. There was no sound to disturb him, just a sudden and urgent need to no longer be sleeping. And as he opened his eyes Virgil felt that old fear of the dark hit him again with such force that his muscles began to seize up. Virgil raised his head just enough to get a clear view of the door to his room, and Virgil saw what he somehow knew he was going to see.

It was impossible to make out any details of the form that stood in the doorway, it was simply a patch of shadow even darker than the night that surrounded it. A silhouette in the pitch black. At first, he thought it was a trick of his eyes adjusting to the dark, but then it began to move. Its body was fat and bulbous, with no limbs or head, so when it came towards him it did so with a slow, undulating pulse along the floor. Virgil could see its outside was covered in what might have been feelers or fleshy tubes, and as it gradually made its way towards him he could see them flicking out and spasming wildly, in what looked horribly like excitement.

Instinct, honed throughout his entire childhood, kicked in and Virgil pulled the thick blanket he was under up and over his head. He gripped the edges close to his chest, weeping and muttering desperate prayers. Virgil clung to it, his tiny island of safety and protection, not even daring to stick his arm out to grab his phone from the nightstand. Who would he have called, anyway? Who could possibly have been prepared to deal with something like this?

As his mind raced through the possibilities, Virgil gradually began to realize that he could hear nothing from beyond the blanket, nor did it appear he had been devoured by whatever the thing in the darkness was. Very gently, Virgil poked his head out from his sanctuary. It was still there, looming in the doorway, utterly still. As soon as he saw it, though, it convulsed back into movement and started once again making its way towards him, painstaking and slow. Virgil dived back under the covers, gripping them tighter than ever.

Another hour passed, and then two, but it was only when he poked his head out that the thing would move. As ridiculous as it sounds, it seemed that while Virgil was under the covers it couldn’t move. It couldn’t get him.

He stayed under there for the rest of the night. When the daylight began streaming in the next morning, Virgil finally left the safety of his bed to see what had become of the thing. It was gone, unsurprisingly, and in its place, there was simply a small patch of dark, foul-smelling water.

Virgil wasn’t quite ready to celebrate, though, and the following night proved he right. Because it came back. He woke again and saw it start that twitching, torturous journey towards him. So back under the covers he went, heart racing, desperately trying to think through what might be happening to him. In retrospect, it’s odd that at no point did Virgil even consider that he might be hallucinating. He never had any doubts that the thing was real. At some point, he finally fell asleep, he managed to stay under that blanket.

That was his life for a week and a half. He would wake up, gripped by the terror of the dark, and hide under the covers from this thing that only comes closer when he leaves their protection. It was awful, obviously, but in the end, it wasn’t the gradual wearing down of his nerves that got him. If anything, it was the opposite. Virgil got too comfortable.

One night, he woke up like before. He sensed it there, but as Virgil raised the covers over his head, he realized that he wasn’t worried. Fear had given way to routine. He laid there, warm and protected, and simply waited to fall back to sleep. But this time, what he felt instead was a sudden weight pressing down on the end of his bed. Whipping tendrils began to smack and grasp against his flimsy fabric barrier. Virgil could see that shape of absolute darkness looming over him, quivering with triumph. Then he heard a voice, crisp and clear, whispering.

And it said, “The blanket never did anything.”


End file.
